


last christmas i gave you my heart (next year i'll take it off the playlist)

by Nike_SGA



Category: The Worst Witch (TV 2017), The Worst Witch - All Media Types
Genre: Christmas Fluff, F/F, Meet-Cute, Wham!, coffee shop AU
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-20
Updated: 2019-12-20
Packaged: 2021-02-26 21:27:44
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,867
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21875617
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nike_SGA/pseuds/Nike_SGA
Summary: She was almost at the door when it opened, the bell over it tinkling as a woman stepped in out of the lightly falling snow. She hesitated when she saw Pippa, hand halfway to unwinding the thick scarf around her neck.“Are you open?”___Pippa runs a small independent coffee shop. It's Christmas Eve and she's about to close up when she gets her last customer of the day. Seasonal Hicsqueak nonsense.
Relationships: Hardbroom/Pentangle (Worst Witch), Hecate Hardbroom/Phyllis Pentangle
Comments: 22
Kudos: 110
Collections: Hicsqueak Christmas Coffee Challenge, The Worst Witch Winter Warmers 2019





	last christmas i gave you my heart (next year i'll take it off the playlist)

**Author's Note:**

> So @twtd11 started a coffee shop AU that she didn't know how to finish. She sent me the first two paragraphs, and I ran off cackling with them and came up with my own ending to the story. We decided to post both our versions and make them the Hicsqueak Christmas Coffee AU, which turned into a challenge: if you want to write a coffee shop AU starting with the same lines about Pippa cleaning her espresso machine, feel free to play! Merry Christmas all!

Pippa wiped down the front of the espresso machine with a damp cloth as some carol or another issued from her speaker system, echoing around her. It was going on six o’clock, the coffee shop was deserted so it wasn't like she had much else to do, and the coffee grounds had a tendency to get everywhere if you didn't regularly keep them in check. Once that was done, she looked around the empty shop and thought about calling it a day. It was only her first year open, and not closing early on Christmas Eve was an experiment. A failed experiment from the looks of things. She'd had a few customers when she'd first opened that morning: parents up too late the previous night putting together their children's toys and in desperate need of some caffeine, mostly. Those few customers didn't make staying open worth it, though, and standing around in an empty coffee shop by yourself wasn't much fun. Still, no one had told her opening her own coffee shop would be glamorous. In fact, if she remembered correctly, the exact words her mother had used were ‘potentially disastrous’. She sighed. She should probably phone her mum tonight, anyway.

Mind made up, Pippa wiped down the counter one last time before tossing the cloth into the laundry bin to be dealt with later. She was almost at the door when it opened, the bell over it tinkling as a woman stepped in out of the lightly falling snow. She hesitated when she saw Pippa, hand halfway to unwinding the thick scarf around her neck.

“Are you open?”

Pippa, who had come to an abrupt stop in the middle of the parquet floor, stared. The woman was tall and striking, with angular features and deep brown eyes, and a slim frame wrapped in a black peacoat. Her dark hair was twisted up behind her in an elegant chignon, and a few snowflakes had settled there and were beginning to melt. Pippa watched as they caught the light and glittered.

The woman shifted uncomfortably to her other foot, and seemed about to turn around when Pippa’s brain caught up to the situation and she lifted a hand as though she were about to physically restrain her new customer.

“No!” she exclaimed, and the woman blinked, startled. Pippa ratcheted her voice down an octave, cursing herself internally, and offered a wide smile. “No. Yes. Sorry. I mean _yes_ , we’re still open.”

The woman was casting her eyes around the rest of the shop now, noting the lack of other customers, and probably regretting her decision to breach the threshold. She seemed reluctant to venture further in, and Pippa realised belatedly that this might be because she was still standing directly in front of her, grinning madly. Pippa spun, marching herself back behind the counter, and felt the tips of her ears turning red. What on earth had gotten into her.

“What can I get you?” she called, in what she hoped was a reassuringly normal tone of voice. The woman finished unwinding her scarf as she stepped up to the counter, folded it in her hands, and ran her eyes along the assortment of jars and boxes stacked on the wall behind.

“Just a coffee,” she said simply, and Pippa gave her another smile, nodding sagely. It wasn’t her her first customer like this. Sometimes they just needed a bit of prompting.

“Flat white?” she offered. “Cappuccino? Latte? Or just an Americano for now?”

The woman opened her mouth and closed it again, and looked beseechingly at Pippa. “Um.”

Ah.

“Or I can do you a tea, if you like.”

Relief washed over her features, and a hint of a smile appeared at the corners of her mouth. It was rather charming, Pippa thought. “Thank you.”

“Just a regular?” The woman nodded, and Pippa gestured to the eclectic gathering of mismatched chairs and tables scattered throughout the room. “I’ll bring it over.”

She quickly stuck a Twinings bag into a small teapot and, thankful she hadn’t turned off any of her machines yet, filled it with boiling water. Balancing it with a cup and saucer and a jug of cold milk, she hurried over to the table where the woman had settled, placing them carefully on the wooden top next to a sturdy-looking totebag. The woman nodded gratefully at her, in the process of unbuttoning her coat and draping it over the back of her chair, revealing a thick, black jumper underneath. “Thanks.”

“No problem,” Pippa replied, lacing her hands behind her back in an effort to combat the urge to fidget with them. “Not much of a coffee drinker?”

The woman looked at her sharply, as if trying to detect some recrimination in her expression, but finding none, she simply shrugged. “Not generally. But there’s nowhere else open.” 

Slightly put-out by the intimation that she was, at best, the woman’s second choice (well, only choice) of venue on the cold, dark night, Pippa pouted slightly. “Yes, well. I suppose everyone else has somewhere to be, it being Christmas Eve and all.”

The woman raised an eyebrow, looking at Pippa sidelong as she elegantly poured her tea into the wide-brimmed cup. “And you don’t?”

It was a fair question, Pippa supposed. She did have somewhere she really should be; she thought about Mum, sighing and shaking her head when Pippa had told her she’d be open tonight. _I just don’t want you running yourself into the ground, love, that’s all. I don’t want you to be disappointed. Are you sure you wouldn’t be better off back at the bank? It was good money, after all…_

“Nothing pressing,” she replied. The woman hummed in acknowledgement, then finished stirring milk into her tea and regarded Pippa for a few moments. Pippa looked back at her expectantly, until it occurred to her that she was hovering and the woman was waiting for her to leave. “Anyway, enjoy your tea,” she tried to recover. “If you need anything, just give me a shout. I’m Pippa, by the way.” With that, she scurried off and situated herself behind the till, busying herself by rearranging some of the displays and humming along to the seasonal tunes still spilling blandly into the air, casting furtive glances at the dark-haired woman all the while. 

She was attractive, but Pippa had noticed that the moment she’d stepped through the door. She had a serious look about her, like someone who spent a lot of time thinking and not an awful lot of time laughing, but her face was relaxed in the soft glow of the coffee shop’s mood-lighting. She held herself a little stiffly, and Pippa wondered if it was tension in her shoulders, or just the kind of strict posture she could never aspire to. Her lips were thin and her jaw sharp, but her eyes were large and alluring, with long dark lashes that fluttered as she read over a sheaf of papers she had pulled from her bag and spread in front of her. Graceful fingers twiddled a pen, occasionally scratching a mark on the paper or sweeping across it in what Pippa could easily surmise was neat, precise handwriting. She caught herself staring a few times, entranced by the way the woman’s hair curled behind her ear where it had loosened from its pins, or the way her black-tipped nails drummed occasionally on the table as she frowned at the page before her. Fortunately, the woman never looked up from her work, so Pippa’s surreptitious observation remained undetected. 

Or so she’d thought. 

“Are you sure I’m not keeping you?”

The woman’s voice was low and rich, warmed by the tea, unexpected in the quiet stillness that had settled over the room. She regarded Pippa with a touch of dry humour behind her inquiring expression as the blonde jumped in surprise at the sudden question. “It’s just”, she continued when Pippa looked at her in confusion, “you’ve been eyeballing me for about fifteen minutes. If you’re wanting to close up I can move on.”

Pippa squeaked in protest, and shook her head vehemently. “No, no! Honestly. Take your time.” She flushed at being discovered, but assured, “No eyeballing, I promise. I was just…” In a moment of inspiration she waved loosely towards the stack of papers on the table, “wondering what you were working on. If it is work that is.”

The woman’s attention mercifully shifted with Pippa’s gesture, and she laid a single, long finger on the page she had just been annotating. 

“Yes, it is. Sort of.”

“Sort of?” Pippa pressed, interest piqued by the hesitancy in her companion’s voice.

“I’m writing a book,” the woman offered by way of explanation, and Pippa found herself rounding the counter once again to stand by the table, taking in blocks of printed text on the white paper with green pen-lines and corrections and additions splashed across them in a small (and neat; she’d known it) handwriting. 

“What’s it about?” she asked, and she could tell the other woman was restraining herself from rolling her eyes at Pippa’s bluntness. For a moment, she didn’t respond, eyes narrowing while she weighed up the merits of giving Pippa a straight answer. 

“Witches,” she said finally, and Pippa’s mouth opened in shock and delight. 

“ _Witches_?”

“Yes,” she confirmed. 

“What, like ‘Harry-“

“No, _not_ like ‘Harry Potter’,” the woman interrupted testily. Evidently, it wasn’t the first time the question had been posed, and irritation flashed across her face. Embarrassed, Pippa stuffed her hands into her apron pockets. 

“Right.”

The woman’s expression softened, and she looked slightly abashed, aware that she had been snappish. “It’s not fiction,” she explained in a more patient tone. “It’s more a history of witchcraft in the area.” 

Pippa brightened, mollified by the contrition on the woman’s face. “Oh? Is there a lot of that?”

“Significant enough to warrant some research,” she replied. Fascinated, Pippa leaned closer to the manuscript, trying to decipher some of the notes. 

“Is that what you do then? Are you a writer? Or a historian?” It made sense suddenly: the dark clothes, the slight aura of mystery, the air of depth and steady concentration that surrounded her. Pippa could imagine the woman in a small flat, or a cottage somewhere on the edges of town, surrounded by books and half-drunk mugs of tea, and probably a cat, typing furiously at a laptop as she uncovered the secrets of long-ago witches and rebel-women in the sleepy English countryside. 

“Actually, I’m a chemistry teacher at Summerdown Comp.,” she announced, bursting Pippa’s bubble as quickly as she had conjured it. 

“Oh,” Pippa said, succinctly. There didn’t seem to be much else to say.

“Sorry to disappoint,” her customer followed on, that hint of amusement back behind her words.

“Not at all!” Pippa reassured her swiftly, then wrinkled her brow mischievously. “Chemistry? Like, bubbling green liquids in glass vials and all that?”

“I'm not a witch, either,” the woman remarked dryly, anticipating her. Pippa laughed. 

“Fair enough.” She grinned, and the woman averted her brown eyes, suddenly self-conscious. 

“It’s just a hobby, really. The book. A personal interest,” she said. She seemed to clam up at that, pressing her lips together as though she’d said more than she’d meant to, and Pippa had the distinct impression she’d prefer it if she didn’t ask any more immediate questions. She decided that she wouldn’t. 

Well, maybe one. 

“Can I get you another tea?”

The woman glanced up, looked at her empty cup, and frowned. “If you’re sure you’re not in a hurry…”

“I’m not,” Pippa reassured her. “In fact, I might even stick a coffee on for myself. Perks of the job.” The woman relaxed fractionally, and nodded her acceptance.

“All right. Thank you.”

Pippa delivered the promised tea and retreated back behind the counter with a large cappuccino for herself. She pulled up the small wooden stool she kept behind the counter for quiet periods, and flicked through a trade catalogue, taking note of things she needed for the shop. She might as well get a jump on her post-New Year ordering while she was here. She sat quietly for a while, lulled by the dulcet tones of Michael Bublé and his cohort, proffering melodic requests for a White Christmas full of jingle bells and snow and the likely possibility of a warm mince pie. Unconsciously, she sang along. After a time, she became aware that it was her turn for being watched. She raised her eyes from the order forms. 

“You have a nice voice,” the woman stated simply, a flicker of uncertainty in her eyes as though she wasn’t sure if the compliment would be welcome. Pippa smiled warmly. 

“Thanks.” She scrunched her nose up as she elaborated, “School choir. Six years. And a lot of karaoke.” That earned her a soft laugh. They were silent again for a few minutes, and then Pippa sighed absently. “Maybe I should have done open-mic carol singing tonight. Might have brought the punters in.”

“Why _are_ you still open?” the woman asked. “Most places shut around four on Christmas Eve, don’t they?”

Pippa shrugged offhandedly. “I thought I’d give it go and see if I could catch any foot traffic, you know. Last-minute shoppers and things. It’s just me; I didn’t have any staff to send home or anything.” The woman didn’t say anything, just waited, as if sensing that there was more to Pippa’s reasoning. She sipped her tea and continued to regard Pippa with those large, deep eyes, until finally Pippa continued, “I’ve only been open six months, I’m still building up a client base. A reputation, you know? Most people’ll just jump into Café Nero or Costa for a quick coffee, so I wanted to give them the opportunity to discover the place. So that I’m still open in another six months.” Silence, still, from her companion, that Pippa felt compelled to fill, which was probably her intention. “It not easy starting up on your own. People always think you’re going fail.” There was a spark in the woman’s eyes, one that let Pippa know she had said something that piqued her curiosity.

“Do they? Who?”

“My mum, mostly.” Without really thinking about it, Pippa wandered over and flopped into a chair at the occupied table, cradling her almost-empty mug. “She’s just worried though. Thinks packing in a good job at the HSBC to open up an independent coffee shop is mad, especially when there’s all the big chains around anyway. She probably right, to be fair.”

“Why did you, then?”

“I like the company.” At the woman’s raised eyebrow, Pippa laughed and expanded, “When I actually have customers that is. I don’t know, I think I wanted...you know, you go out into town and you stop for a coffee in one of these franchised places and it just feels so impersonal, if you see what I mean? Corporate. There’s no sense of relaxation, or community, or comfort. It’s just another place of business, where you buy a product and you have it quickly and you move on. I quite fancied finding somewhere that felt a bit more welcoming, a bit more homey, and when I couldn’t find it, I decided to open it.” She let her thoughts collect for a moment as she sipped lukewarm cappuccino from her cup. “I like... _people_. I like having people around. I want them to feel like they can come in here and relax, and wander about and stay as long as they like, and ask for a coffee whatever way they want, without being rushed. Or a tea,” she added wryly, smiling. She was rewarded with a look of amusement and a self-deprecating nod. “And I like chatting.”

“Never,” her companion interjected drily. Pippa made a face at her.

“It was the only part of working at a bank that I actually liked. Talking to the customers. A lot of them come here now when they’re out and about. They’re the reason I managed to get off the ground at all.” She sighed. “But my family still aren’t convinced. When I said I’d be staying open a bit later tonight my mum was sure I wouldn’t see a single soul past four o’clock, and I’d be home by half past six.”

“Well, at least now you can tell her you couldn’t close early because you had customers.”

“Custom- _er_.”

“She doesn’t need to know that.” 

Pippa raised her mug in salute. “That is very true.” 

She swirled the dregs of her coffee around as the woman’s gaze drifted back over to her papers, and Pippa knew she should let her get back to it, but she was enjoying the conversation and she’d opened up a bit about her life, so she rather wanted to see if it earned her anything in return. “What about you? Did you always want to be a chemistry teacher?”

“God, no,” came the immediate response, and she must have looked surprised, because the woman huffed out a laugh. “I just sort of fell into it. I actually wanted to be a writer,” she gestured to the marked-up manuscript on the table with its scribbled secrets about history and witches, “but it’s hardly steady work, and I lost my parents when I was a teenager…” She trailed off, Pippa once again getting the feeling that she’d shared more than she normally would with a stranger “I was always good at chemistry,” the woman added, and Pippa understood what her companion wasn’t saying.

“I wanted to be a musician,” she told her, and when the woman raised her gaze again to look at her questioningly, she continued, “but I was good with numbers too.” The woman comprehended her. “Sometimes you have to go where the work is.”

“It’s not such a bad job,” she said. “The kids are a handful, usually, but it can be...rewarding.”

There was silence for a few moments, both women lost in their own thoughts. Pippa broke it first. “We’re just a couple of lost artistic souls, you and I,” she declared with a dramatically wistful sigh. Her table-mate snorted. 

“Maybe in another life.”

“Maybe,” Pippa responded cheerfully, determined to dispel the tinge of melancholy in the air. “In this life, let me get you another cuppa.” She realised belatedly that the music had stopped playing, so she stuck her Christmas playlist back on as she passed, and before long she brought another pot of tea and a coffee over to the table. 

“Would you mind terribly?” she asked the woman, indicating the empty chair opposite her with the Nisbets’ magazine she had carried over under her arm. “I have some ordering to finish, and-”

“Not at all,” her companion cut her off, a slight blush colouring the top of her cheekbones at her own enthusiasm. Pippa smiled brightly, and took up residence.

“Thanks.”

They worked quietly for another half an hour or so. Pippa occasionally glanced up from her catalogue, and once or twice she could have sworn she caught the other woman just looking away, as though avoiding being caught. It was nearing eight when her companion stretched, yawning suddenly, and announced, “Is that the time? I suppose I had better be getting on.” 

Pippa wondered if she had somewhere else to be, and chided herself for the small flash of irrational jealousy that welled up in her breastbone. _She_ had somewhere to be, after all, really. Still she couldn’t help but feel a little disappointed that the woman was leaving, although for the life of her she couldn’t have articulately justified why.

They stood at the same time, and the woman reached into her bag, withdrawing a purse. “What do I owe you?”

For a brief moment, Pippa considered waving her off, telling her not to bother, it was Christmas, but she had the impression that that would cause her some disapproval, that they other woman wouldn’t like it. Instead, she went back to the till and rang her up, although she did apply her self-appointed staff discount. If the woman suspected anything, she didn’t comment, just paid Pippa quietly. It was while she was handing over her change the woman winced, visibly, and swore under her breath. “Goddamn it.”

“Is something the matter?” Pippa asked, instantly alarmed. The woman sighed, and looked a little embarrassed, but her voice was still cross as she answered, “You just whammed me.”

“I _what?”_ Pippa was sure she must have misheard.

“Whammed me.” The woman gestured with her head toward the wall-mounted speaker beside the door, from where George Michael was tunefully lamenting ‘ _This year, to save me from tears, I’ll give it someone special…’_ . Pippa was utterly bewildered, and the woman sighed, although Pippa could see she was holding back mirth.

“One of the many downsides to being a secondary teacher,” she said, “is getting caught up in their ridiculous games.” When Pippa still looked baffled, she explained, “They do this...thing at Christmas where you have to go through the whole month of December until Christmas Day without hearing Wham’s _Last Christmas_. They call it ‘Whamaggedon.’ My fifth years bet me I couldn’t make it. I was doing perfectly well until you just put me out with,” she checked, “ six bloody hours to go.” Even though she was laughing, she still looked genuinely peeved, and the whole exchange was so utterly contrary to the serious, introspective image of this woman that Pippa had built up over the last two hours that she couldn’t help but dissolve into laughter herself.

“I’m extremely sorry.”

“You should be. I don’t know how I’m going to face my class in January.”

“I’ll make it up to you next time you’re in.”

The woman smiled at her warmly, and for the first time that evening Pippa detected a hint of shyness that indicated that perhaps she wasn’t the only one who had been more interested in the company than the coffee. Or tea. 

“See that you do.”

She was almost out of the door before Pippa found her voice and called after her, “Hold on…”

The woman turned, and her eyes glittered as they met Pippa’s.

“Hecate,” she said, answering Pippa’s question before she’d even asked. _Hecate_ , Pippa repeated to herself. _A witch’s name._ And then she was gone, stepping out into the snow, lost to the darkness. Pippa stood behind the counter regarding the door for long moments before she shook herself, and got on with the process of tidying up which she had put on hold two hours ago. When the shop was clean and tidy and shut down for the night, she pulled the shutter over her front door and locked it, digging her phone out of the pocket of her duffle coat as she did so.

_Just closed. Home soon,_ she texted Mum, as she set off along the road to her car.

_You’re late. Everything alright?_

_Yeah,_ she typed back, raising her face to the snow that swirled down through the streetlamps and landed on her hair and eyelashes. _Couldn’t close up early. Customers._

_Really?_

As a snowflake landed on her nose. Pippa smiled.


End file.
